Fanfic100 Drabbles
by JuliTina
Summary: Fanfic100 drabbles. RiffCain. Godchild spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Written for fanfic100. Drabbles will come in the order I do them, rather than numerical order.

038. Touch.

Riff can hear the thumping of his own heart, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins as he listens to the light footsteps that pass by the door. The briskness of pace suggests that it is Bertha, the laundry maid, finished with her scrubbing and ready to retire for the night.

If only he were so lucky.

Instead, he tries to keep his composure as Cain paws insistently at his collar, his string tie and suit jacket already abandoned on the floor. Cain's bed is extremely large, and yet, Riff wonders how he has been manoeuvred into a position where he is sprawled over his charge, confined beneath the bed covers and elbows resting on either side of Cain's head; both supporting his weight, and keeping himself as distanced as he possibly can.

"Riff," Cain says plaintively, with a little sigh, "You're practically hovering."

"I'm sorry, I can't help it, sir." And it is the truth, because Riff has a feeling that if he lets go, it will be a turning point in his life that he just cannot go back on.

But the look that Cain shoots him as the honorific leaves his lips suggests how ridiculous sounding it is, especially given the current situation. It shows something about Cain; he is arrogant, domineering, and yet he is also painfully oblivious to any type of emotion that is understated, underlying between people. Riff grapples for a word, and he settles on _insensitive_ as Cain holds the look, and sighs some more, eventually rolling over - away to the side from under Riff.

"Honestly," he says. "I didn't expect you to be such a prude."

Riff mutters something in reply, cutting himself off abruptly before he can say something damaging. But Cain's sharp ears catch it anyway, and he smirks in response.

"I think I'm flattered." He snipes, and tugs Riff's arms out from underneath him, making him fall onto the bed, springs bouncing. "Now, do you need a nightshirt or are you going to wrinkle your day clothes?"

Riff freezes at the implications and the utter _impropriety_, and he looks at Cain with poorly disguised horror, noting rather resentfully that Cain is _grinning_, Cheshire cat smug, head tilting with a hand propping up his cheek.

"I am just fine, thank you." He says, keeping his expression cool. And a small but wicked part of him relishes the look on Cain's face when he starts to unbutton his shirt, slipping the fabric off and hanging it over the bedpost. And as Cain quickly recovers and shifts closer to his side, Riff likes to think that it is a good sign, that it is he, himself who reaches out first to pull them together, touching.

end


	2. Chapter 2

048. Diamond.

They are stranded in a hall of blue and shadow. Riff looks up and he sees chandeliers dangle down from the ceiling, crystal gleaming from under the cobwebs and dust. There are thick, luxurious rugs beneath his feet, dull with age, and pieces of grand furniture that are broken into splintered hulls.

"Welcome to the secrets of Hillforte mansion," Cain says, lifting the light higher so that the candle drips wax onto the rugs. Riff looks on disapprovingly. They are _guests_, and he bites his tongue as he eyes the hardening wax. He then watches Cain step carelessly over a broken oil lamp, heels grinding into shards of glass, the light from the candle catching them like broken diamonds.

"Relax," Cain soothes, lips quirking up into a smile, peering around the corner inquisitively. "We're trespassing – they won't even know we were here."

Riff snorts, knowing that in his own way, Cain is seriously trying to make him feel better.

"…What are we looking for?" Riff asks, more out of obligation than actual curiosity.

And Cain looks at him, eyes glittering.

"Secrets," he whispers.

end


	3. Chapter 3

052. Fire.

Riff sighs. Without looking at him, Cain shushes him with a flapping motion, continuing to stare intently at the candle flame, watching it flicker. He then dips a spoon into white powder, heating it up. It takes a few seconds, and the white becomes liquid, bubbling slightly. It looks completely harmless, and Cain grins as the liquid begins to congeal around the spoon, turning a charred black. He steals a look at Riff, who looks absolutely scandalised.

"_Please_," Riff begins, with a pleading note that is beginning to creep into his voice, "would you stop using the silverware for your hobby…?" He trails off, wondering if his pleas will do any good – he already knows that the scullery maid is drafting her resignation letter.

"Experiments," Cain corrects, and he waves the spoon for emphasis. "I need the silver to activate the poison."

Riff does not respond, knowing that his master is telling an outright fib. He wants to say something about being a medic student, or how science isn't a completely new concept to him – but he sees the flash of amusement in Cain's eyes and he knows that in his own unique way, Cain is joking with him.

"Then it's a good thing that the Hargreaves poison is stored in a silver ring, isn't it?"

Cain smirks, his lips quirking upwards.

"Precisely," He mutters.

end


	4. Chapter 4

060. Drink.

The décor is sophisticated; chairs made from ebony and drapes of scarlet silk. A crackling fireplace mounted with gold and marble throws long shadows over room, but underneath it all, there is an air of decadence that lingers, like smoke. They are in one of the famed opium dens of London, and Cain sits, sprawling on a plush armchair, puffing on a pipe that is passed around the room. Riff barely makes out the blurred forms through the haze, and he moves closer, sitting next to his master.

In dim light, Cain's eyes are slightly narrowed; aware and sharp as he watches the men slowly become lost, pupils dilating and heads thrown back in ecstasy. Their limbs are flung astray, and they become motionless, frozen in odd angles like dark scarecrows.

He passes the pipe to Riff, who blanches.

"You must be joking."

"Don't inhale," Cain murmurs, words slurring together…Riff wonders if his master is intoxicated with something else.

But he still refuses, albeit politely, and Cain laughs, light and birdlike in his amusement. The sound is out of place in the dimly lit room, and as Cain stands up to examine the motionless bodies, Riff wonders absently why the scarecrows aren't working.

…Of course. He eyes the pipe that lies abandoned on the floor, and he smells something that reminds him of his past, of tonics and medicinal lessons that he still remembers vividly. Or at least, he thinks he can remember, and the smell of opium then invades his nostrils, making him feel light-headed and…

And as his vision becomes dark at the edges, he sees Cain standing next to the fireplace, a dull glow casting shadows over his face, his cheekbones. Without looking at Riff, he pulls a hip flask out, unstoppering the bottle and raising it to the pile of motionless bodies, which are beginning to look like corpses in the failing light.

"Addiction is a terrible thing," He begins, and Riff blinks and his head swims. Cain's gaze flickers back towards him for a second, and his expression grows conflicted, as if contemplating something, or perhaps deciding what to say. Then his features settle, and he smoothly raises his arm. "A toast to the dead," he says. But unable to fight off the darkness any longer, Riff closes his eyes and he does not see Cain drink.

end


End file.
